The Crooked Advice of Imaginary Friends.

I am a monumental stain
on her Shakespearean dress

and Paris is nothing more
than an occupied heart,
pulsing rain beneath
Monet’s umbrella.

elderly cliches
hold hands on a
somewhere park bench
outside of a station
that grew tired
of waiting in line.

and when that whistle blows
through the yawn of a
pearly August morning dew,
we will find ourselves amid
varsity jackets, and white dresses,
and avenue thieves,
in the reflection of a groove
attempting to hold a spill.

by midafternoon,
we’ll understand
that it was really nothing.